


hallowed, but hesitated

by PleaseDontGetMeRescued



Series: i think your love would be too much [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BUT THE NEXT ONE??, DON'T WORRY GUYS I'M FIXING IT!, Gen, OOOOH BOY WATCH OUT, This one isn't very happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 01:13:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18906502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PleaseDontGetMeRescued/pseuds/PleaseDontGetMeRescued
Summary: "Something more important."  Arya turns the words over in her mind.  He means the rest of the world.  The only thing more important than Jon’s love for his queen was the rest of the world.Jon is stupid, she decides.  Stupid and selfless.Sandor’s voice is a rough growl inside her mind. "Do you want to be like me?"-Post-8x05/Missing scenes from 8x06





	hallowed, but hesitated

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, listen. While I wasn't personally rooting for Dany because I'm a Stark stan first, I still love her character and I think we can all agree that D&D did her dirty af. That being said, when I started this series it was with the intention to challenge myself to stay within canon, no matter how bad it got. So if you're a Dany stan, I'm sorry. However, I have another couple fics planned (not in this series) where Dany is still the Dany we know and love. So if you're interested, keep an eye out for those.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> -
> 
> Series title from sunflower by post malone
> 
> Story title from carry you by novo amor.

It must be some kind of miracle, she thinks, that the mare stands before her.A miracle by the Seven or the old gods or the new, she doesn’t care.It certainly isn’t the god of death.She is starting to lose faith in him, she thinks. 

 

_All men must die._

 

_All men…_

 

So many men and women and children and…

 

She pets the mare’s dirtied marble neck, shushes her gently, and climbs on.Her ribs are screaming at her.Her lungs are screaming at her.Her throat and her head are screaming at her.The ghosts-

 

All around here there is death.Old and young, rich and poor.In the end, it didn’t matter.They all screamed.They all cried.And now, they’re all dead. 

 

She can’t bear to dwell on it.She rides hard and fast back through the city, past the demolished gates, past wounded soldiers in golden cloaks, Dothraki and Unsullied and Northmen.Somewhere in there is her brother, she hopes.But she can’t know for sure if he’s there or buried under the concave city. 

 

She doesn’t stop until she’s passed every last man and knight and soldier.She heads for the Kingsroad. 

 

After some time - hours or minutes - she meets the trees.A bit further and there’s a stream.She pulls the reins of her mare, her miracle, and comes to a stop.Her body is aching and tired.Her ears are ringing, her eyes watering.She’s too exhausted to cry. 

 

She falls from her horse with all the grace of a newborn babe.Her knee hits a rock.Her hands scrape against gravel and twigs, sprouting blood.More blood.So much blood.What’s the difference anyway?

 

The mare’s tired hooves pass her by, stepping into the cool water of the stream, leaning down to drink.The soft laps of tongue against teeth seem to pull Arya from her daze.She looks up, her vision streaked with smoke-obstructed sunlight as she takes in the giant figure of the beast.Beyond the mare, the sky is a congested grey - smoke and destruction.Death. 

 

With a groan, she pulls herself to the edge of the stream and rolls onto her back into the shallows.The water is cool and feels good on her aching body.She cups the water in her hand and brings it to her face, scrubbing away the blood and ash. 

 

It hurts to breathe.Her throat aches.With weak ribs, she rolls to her front and cups more water, bringing it to her lips.She drinks and drinks and drinks like a dying thing.The supposes, perhaps, she _is_ one. 

 

She drinks until her stomach heaves.She splutters, water coming back up her throat and out into the stream beneath her.The contents are thick and grey.Ash and acid and water mixing into a sickly mush that cakes her insides and coats her teeth.

 

She forces more water down.She swishes it back and forth in her mouth and spits.Nothing can erase the taste of death from her mouth. 

 

Eventually, she pulls herself out of the water and onto the grass.The entire world is hazy.She wonders if it’s from the ash snowing down around her, even here, under the canopy of trees, or the accumulated head trauma from past days.Perhaps both. 

 

She thinks of Sansa, at home in Winterfell.Of Bran and Jon.Nymeria wandering through Westeros, free and wild.Of Gendry, sad-eyed and star struck. 

 

_Do you want to be like me?_ Sandor had asked her. 

 

She falls asleep there.Or falls unconscious.Perhaps both.

 

-

 

She doesn’t know if this is a nightmare or a hallucination.Perhaps both.

 

She stands in the throne room of the Red Keep.The walls are gone.Sitting there, on the Iron Throne, is Daenerys Targaryen.The sun pours through the broken slats of what used to be the ceiling, shining off of her white hair, illuminating the room.On her head sits a crown made of silver so pure it blends with her hair.A dragon.

 

Jon stands beside the Queen; Arya stands before her.Daenerys smiles a smile so sweet and kind it calms Arya’s racing heart back to its normal rate. 

 

The doors behind her open.A rumble so loud it could shatter ears erupts through the room.Arya doesn’t know if it’s the sound of the doors scraping against the stone floor, or the thunder clouds suddenly rolling in overhead.Perhaps both.

 

The clouds obstruct the sun, turning the Queen’s hair grey and ugly.Her smile is even uglier.Arya turns to see what could have made the Queen’s beautiful face turn so cold. 

 

It’s Sansa.She wears a grey dress embroidered with red leaves.On her head rests a crown.A direwolf.She steps around Arya, faces the Dragon Queen.Her head is high, eyes unafraid. 

 

Arya is suddenly very afraid. 

 

Daenerys narrows her eyes at Arya’s beautiful sister, pinning her with nothing but hatred. She opens her mouth to speak, but in the end, the Queen doesn’t say a word.Instead, an orange glow erupts from deep within her throat, casting her teeth in bright light.Fire bursts forth, swallowing Sansa in a bright flame of dragon fire.

 

Arya screams and runs for her sister, but it’s too late.Sansa is nothing but ash.Arya falls to the stone floor of the throne room.All is silent except for the crackling of dragon fire on the corpse of what used to be her sweet sister, and Arya’s broken sobs. 

 

She squeezes her eyes shut.She can’t bear to look.

 

_Don’t look_ , Yoren says, pressing Arya’s face to his chest as her father’s head rolls to the dirt.

 

The door opens again.A nameless, faceless guard pushes Bran’s chair in front of the throne.In front of the queen.On his head is a crown.A raven.

 

Again, Daenerys says nothing - only glares and opens her mouth.Bran is unmoving, eyes vacant and all-seeing as ever.He doesn’t cry or beg.But Arya does. 

 

_Please.No, Your Grace.Please, please._

 

She turns on her aching knees to beg before the Queen. 

 

_Please, I beg of you._

 

Her legs are too weak underneath her.She wants more than anything to jump up, fold her baby brother into her arms and protect him from the flames she knows are coming, but her body is glued to the floor. 

 

The Queen ignores Arya’s pleas, and the same orange burst of dragon fire smothers her dear brother until he, too, is nothing but ash. 

 

_What do we say to the god of death?_  

 

_Not today_ , whispers Syrio’s smooth voice in her ear.

 

The god of death isn’t listening though.Instead, she takes.

 

Arya sobs, her chest full of broken ribs cry out for her to stop, but she can’t.Her family.

 

_Her family -_

 

The door opens again. 

 

Arya is on her feet before she even knows she’s moving.She’s halfway across the throne room when strong arms wrap around her from behind and keep her back. 

 

_No, no, no, no, no.Please.I’ll do anything.I’ll do anything._

 

Gendry doesn’t look at her.He’s dressed in fine leathers and a new cloak, fastened with a pin of strong antlers.On his head is a crown.A stag. 

 

_Please. Please._

 

She fights with everything she has to get to him.She fights with all of her training, with all of her will, but in the end, Jon’s arms are too strong.She cannot break free. 

 

_Anything.Anything._

 

The Queen opens her mouth once more.Fire erupts and Gendry is gone.Another pile of ash and bones before the Iron Throne. 

 

Jon drops her to the floor and she collapses in a heap.She crawls with dead-weighted limbs to the piles bones that were once her family.Surrounded by them, she curls up on herself and sobs.They wrack her body and force her lungs to heave in the putrid smoke around her. 

 

She hears Jon’s footsteps across the stone floor.She hears the rustle of his clothes as he kneels before the throne.“My Queen,” he says with all the love and adoration in the world.Arya can’t bear to open her eyes. 

 

“I love you,” Arya hears Daenerys say.“But my people must come first.My _reign_ must come first.”

 

Arya shudders as an orange glow blinds her through her eyelids.The sound of a blazing fire fills her ears.And then -

 

Silence.

 

She opens her eyes and her family is gone.All that remains is the Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, first of her name, upon the Iron Throne.Her sweet smile is back.

 

“To Arya Stark,” Daenerys says.“The Hero of Winterfell.”Her tone is mocking as she emerges from her throne and bends to tuck a strand of smoke-stinking hair behind Arya’s ear.“Ican never repay you for what you’ve done, Lady Stark.And so, I will let you live.”

 

_None of it would be worth anything if you’re not with me._

 

The Queen leaves out the door Arya’s family came in.Arya cries, squeezing herself tight.This can’t be real.This isn’t real. 

 

Above her, the deep grey clouds rain down ash, warm and acrid.It falls around her like the snow of her childhood home.

 

-

 

_From Winterfell to Dorne, from Lannisport to Qarth, from the Summer Isles to the Jade Sea.Women, men, and children have suffered too long beneath the wheel. Will you break the wheel with me?_

 

“What are you doing here?”Jon’s voice is so familiar.So real.“Hey, what happened?”His hand on her shoulder feels real.His hand on her face does too.Her brother is here in front of her, not a pile of charred bones on the throne room floor.

 

“She’s everyone’s queen now,” he tells her.And that’s what she’s afraid of. 

 

Arya knows that dreams are just dreams.She knows that what she had - her nightmare, her _vision_ -was most likely just the ramblings of her trauma-addled head. 

 

Still, the voice in the back of her mind won’t leave her alone. 

 

_But what if it wasn’t?_  

 

 

This is what she knows:

 

Fear cuts deeper than swords, and Daenerys Targaryen is afraid.Afraid to see all of her years of struggle and grief and sacrifice go to waste.Even if Arya’s vision was just a nightmare, experience and the history books and Jon’s tales of his beautiful queen have taught her that Targaryens will cut down anyone who stands in their way or die trying. 

 

Arya will not let her family be sacrificed for the Dragon Queen’s crusade.

 

 

This is the question:

 

What do we say to the god of death?

 

 

The answer:

 

Not today.

 

And so she tells Jon, “I know a killer when I see one.”

 

But she never meant him.Gods, she never meant him.

 

-

 

The next time she sees her brother it is through the Valyrian steel bars of a cell door. 

 

“I’m sorry,” she tells him, tears thick in her throat.The stone floor is cold beneath her as she sits, holding hands with her favorite brother, on opposite sides of his prison. 

 

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Jon says.His voice is deeper than ever, sadder.His eyes are hollow and his beard unkempt.“You were right.”

 

“Was I?”She can’t be sure if what she did was right, if she said the right thing.She thinks probably not, because she never meant for it to come to this.It was supposed to be her on the inside of a prison cell.It was supposed to be her awaiting judgment for the regicide.It was never supposed to be Jon, it was supposed to be _her._

 

For the first time in her life, little Arya Underfoot was too slow. 

 

Jon got there first.

 

“What will happen now?”

 

Arya sighs, squeezing his fingers.“Sansa is on her way.And Bran.All of the remaining lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms.”Jon nods somberly.“Grey Worm wants you executed.”She squeezes his hand again and forces him to meet her eye.“I won’t let that happen.”

 

Jon smiles sadly.“You can’t control everything, Arya.”

 

“I can try.” 

 

Jon smiles again and chuckles.A ping of hope shoots through Arya’s chest. 

 

“Whatever happens happens.Let’s not dwell on it in the meantime.” 

 

Arya swallows.Her throat feels tight.“You loved her.” 

 

It’s not a question.

 

“I still love her.”Arya’s head spins.“I’ll always love her.”

 

“Then how could you hurt her?I would have- I was going to-”

 

Arya refuses to think about how she hurt -

 

She refuses to think about it.

 

“If there were another way… I would have done anything,” Jon says, voice low.“But she wouldn’t stop.She was never going to stop and -” He breathes sharply through his nose.“There was something more important.”

 

_Something more important._ Arya turns the words over in her mind.He means the rest of the world.The only thing more important than Jon’s love for his queen was the rest of the world.

 

Jon is stupid, she decides.Stupid and selfless. 

 

_Do you want to be like me?_

 

Sandor’s voice is a rough growl inside her mind. 

 

No, she decides.She doesn’t.And she doesn’t want to be like Jon either.

 

She thinks of Sansa’s blue eyes and red hair, the spitting image of their mother.So beautiful and smart and fierce.Arya wants to see her sister heal and grow and fall in love one day.She wants to see her rule. 

 

She thinks of Bran’s hollow face and mellow voice.She thinks of him pressing the Catspaw into her hands.She thinks of her head on his knee in the Godswood, the two of them surrounded by snow and blood.She doesn’t know how much of Bran is her brother and how much is the Three-Eyed Raven, but she wants to find out.

 

She thinks of Gendry’s sweet, adoring face.She thinks of his lips on her neck and his work-worn hands on her skin.She thinks of his back pressed close to hers as they sleep on the hard ground at Harrenhal.She thinks of him tucking her hair behind her ear and saying _rest_.She thinks of him asking her to marry him. 

 

The thinks of Jon’s hand in hers at this very moment, the two of them separated by Valyrian steel.She thinks of him presenting her with Needle a near decade ago, saying _stick ‘em with the pointy end_.She thinks of him lifting her off the ground, high into the air in the strongest hug she’s ever felt.His hugs always felt like magic, like safety - when she was 5 years old, when she was 10, and only a few weeks ago at 18.

 

She thinks that for all of the sadness and death in the world, there must be equal amounts of goodness and sweetnessShe thinks there must be more to life than this war, than these seven kingdoms. 

 

She doesn’t want to be like Sandor, sad and alone.She doesn’t want to be like Jon, selfless.

 

There is so much left to learn, left to see.People to love.

 

_Do you want to be like me?_

 

No.  She wants to be selfish.

 

 

 

 


End file.
